“We’re ready to move him, ma’am,” one of the paramedics says.
They bring in the stretcher. I don’t let go of Damien’s hand, not even when they lift him. My palm is red where our fingers meet. His grip isn’t strong, but it’s there. I follow them out into the night air that smells like gunfire smoke and engine heat.
The private ambulance idles with its lights off. The medics open the back doors and load Damien in. One of the paramedics climbs in next, then me. The doors shut. The sudden smallness of the space makes my chest feel heavy. The other paramedic gets in the driver’s seat, keeping the siren silent. We move, a smooth surge forward that rolls my stomach and steadies my head at the same time.
Inside, everything is clean and bright. The medic hangs the IV and adjusts the flow, checking the dressing and talking to Damien.
“You’re going to hate me,” he says. “But that’s how you’ll know you’re still here.” He injects something that makes Damien hiss and clamp his jaw. The medic doesn’t flinch. “Good.”
I sit on the bench, our hands locked. I want to kiss his mouth, his forehead, the inside of his wrist. I want to lie down on top of him and keep him from leaking out of this world. Instead, I stay still and watch his eyes.
They are heavy-lidded. Pain swims within. But when they find me, they focus. “Cassandra.”
“I’m here.” The words come easier now. “I’m here.”
Outside the back window, the warehouse shrinks. I picture Alex back there, face carved out of stone, calling it in with that clean cop cadence he can wear like a mask. He’ll make it look like a drug deal gone wrong. He’ll swallow the grief of losing his brother and keep moving.
I look at Damien’s face. The medic checks the monitor again and nods. “Keep talking to him.”
“You scared me,” I say. “You stupid, brave man. You scared me.”
His mouth pulls into something like a smile, though it doesn’t last long. He swallows. His fingers twitch in mine. He shifts and winces. The medic’s hand lands light and firm on his shoulder, keeping him there.
I place my free hand gently against his cheek. The stubble there is rough, familiar. “I wasn’t sure I would ever get to tell you about how excited I am.”
His gaze drifts and then snaps back. He lifts his hand slowly, like it weighs a ton, and lays it over mine, then slides it to my stomach. Even through my coat, I can feel the heat of him.Something inside me breaks open and sets differently, like a bone aligning.
He nods slightly, like he has just made a decision with a stamp and seal. “Ours,” he whispers.
A laugh breaks out of me that is half sob, half joy. “Ours,” I say.
He squeezes my hand. The medic watches the monitor and continues to check vitals. I breathe in and out deeply.
“Our contract ends soon.” The words hang between us like a dark cloud of smoke, ugly and menacing. “We wrote an end into the beginning.”
His eyes harden, pain flashing within. He shakes his head once. “No.”
“Damien—”
“This was never about a contract.” His voice is low, yet firm. “It’s about you. Our child. Your future. It’s not a negotiation.”
The words land and keep falling, past the places where fear used to live, past the rooms where I stored excuses. They hit bottom and ring true. My lower lip trembles. I press it hard with my teeth and stop pretending I’m not crying. Tears spill hot and raw. I lean down, pressing our foreheads together.
“I love you,” I say simply. “I tried not to. I tried to be smarter. I failed.”
His eyes close and open again, like he’s absorbing the words and fastening them somewhere safe inside. “I love you too.” A crooked smile forms. “Remember the rule at the start—strictly no falling in love?” He huffs a soft laugh that hurts. “I broke it.”
I laugh too. “We both did.”
The ambulance bumps a pothole. I thumb away a smear of blood at the corner of Damien’s mouth.
“You took a bullet for me.”
He tries to shrug; then quickly realizes it’s not a good idea. “I did. I took a bullet because he aimed at what’s mine.”
I could roll my eyes, but I don’t. For now, the only thing that matters is that he is alive, I am here with him, and our baby is growing inside me whether the world likes it or not.
The medic finishes another check and tapes a new dressing in place. He looks at me. “Assuming he follows the instructions we give him, he should make a full recovery.” Then, “Though he doesn’t look like a man who likes to follow rules.”
